


killing beauregard

by CrayfishCoffee



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Infidelity, Killing Eve AU, Non-Graphic Violence, sorry to make keg niko but someone has to be cucked in this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayfishCoffee/pseuds/CrayfishCoffee
Summary: “While we believe to have her name and nationality she went by in her previous life, because of contact she has made with certain expositors,” their dark eyes lock onto Beau, “She appears to answer to the name ‘Jester.’”
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett, Keg/Beauregard Lionett
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	killing beauregard

**Author's Note:**

> No I haven't watched season 3 yet don't @ me.

As far as teacher events go, it isn’t even as excruciating as it could be. Sure, it’s still an echoey gym with fold out tables, but the school budget is apparently doing well enough that they can spring for some actually drinkable alcohol. Beau takes a measured sip of the red she had poured generously from the neck as she sits herself down amongst the row of collapsible chairs lined up against the beige wall.

Social engagements… aren’t her thing. As pitiful as it sounds, Beau would rather be back in her research office burning her retinas with bright monitor screens or almost dying via a flight of stairs after a suspect goes on the run. It probably doesn’t reflect well that her skin is already starting to itch overhearing varying conversations about new house paint colors and syllabuses for the new year, but. Well.

Beau looks across the floor at a tall aasimar wearing a skirt that any other day would be a uniform violation, Renee maybe? Reani? Beau catches her eye and presses her lips tight in what she hopes is a pleasant smile. She can’t tell if the pained wave she receives in response is due to a failure on her part or if it’s because Reani desperately wants to fuck her wife.

Keg, her impeccable, handsome wife.

Despite Beau not putting in the effort to actually socialize with her coworkers, the fact that she bothered to show up at all seems to have put Keg in a good mood. Beau always assumed gym coaches were the type of people forced into the position after a miserable tail-spin in life, but Keg  _ actually _ seems to enjoy it all. She watches the easy way Keg smiles and waves at other teachers and significant others–people Beau has never seen before in her life–all coming up to greet Keg like the chummiest of friends. Beau observes with no small amount of desire the handsome texture of stubble spread across her jaw, and the way the fabric of her dress-shirt tugs tight over the muscles of her biceps. She observes the way Reani’s hand goes to rest on said bicep as she giggles far too enthusiastically at some half-baked remark Keg must have made. Beau can’t help but raise a brow. She knows her wife, and she isn’t  _ that _ funny.

Like oil atop water, her thoughts slide away.

What is funny is the sight of some filthy-rich business tycoon strung up like a pig in a butcher-shop window after trying to get his dick wet in a red light district. It’s gruesome. It’s murder. It’s horrific. Humour isn’t the point, or maybe it is, because somehow the hand-drawn dick on the victim’s forehead seems to act as a punchline to some premeditated setup, and Beau can’t help the corners of her mouth flickering upwards. There’s a gallow’s humour satisfaction in it, but it is not the satisfaction of the executed nor the executioner she is feeling, but the onlooker drinking in the sound of a clean neck snap. And perhaps, even if just for a second, wondering how the sensation of rope must feel like around one’s own neck…

“You must be Keg’s wife, then?”

Beau chokes on the wine she had brought to her parched mouth and manages not to dribble any on her crisp shirt like some fumbling idiot. In a rush the layered noise of the gymnasium comes flooding back to her, but through it all the sound of Keg’s laughter has her flushing with shame at her mind’s course of action, and how lost she must have been to not even notice someone approaching her. Beau looks up at some human woman standing before her and clocks the bead necklace and bohemian scarf keeping back her blue hair: art teacher.

“Yeah that’s, uh,” Beau takes a more measured sip of her wine to clear her airway, “That’s me.”

“Mind if I sit?” she says, already sitting down in the seat next to Beau. She puts out her hand with a grin. “Fiona.”

“Nice to meet you,” Beau says, shaking her hand and trying to input any modicum of sincerity into her voice as her mind struggles to shrug off images of hands on knife handles and crime scene stills. Fiona looks like the kind of person always two degrees of separation away from starting conversations about “auras” and Beau is simply not in the mood to put up with it.

“Keg is so mysterious about you, you know.” Fiona pauses to sip a sparkling something from her glass. “We hardly know anything about you besides the moaning and groaning she does about the wife at home.”

“Is that so,” Beau says with a raised brow and a downturn of her mouth as she shoots a glance over to Keg who is still chatting with the slutty teacher.

Fiona sticks out her bottom lip and nods in a faux-sympathetic way that strikes Beau as oddly familiar, and she wonders whether she  _ has _ met this teacher at some other party. “Yes, I know, always with the mumbling and fumbling. But I am very interested in knowing more about you. What is it you do for work?” She clinks her chipped nails on the belly of her glass.

\---

“The subject we are trying to apprehend is an unknown female, of unverified race or build. She is highly suspected to be of tiefling origin, however this is difficult to confirm considering this particular assassin seems to have a wide variety of stealth, glamour, and illusion arcana at her disposal–including but not limited to disguise self and protection from our scrying spells.”

Dairon’s voice is as cool and measured as their footsteps as they walk back and forth in front of the projector screen, occasionally clicking the control in their hand to move on to more evidence of the unknown subject’s exploits.

“While we believe to have her name and nationality she went by in her previous life, because of contact she has made with certain expositors,” their dark eyes lock onto Beau, “She appears to answer to the name ‘Jester.’”

\---

“I do some intelligence work, investigate international crime. That sort of thing.”

“Ooh, sounds exciting, like for the Cobalt Soul or something? Or are you not allowed to tell me?” Her thick-rimmed glasses slide further down her nose as her painted lips form into a perfect “o,” the shape of which Beau’s eyes trace with a twinge of guilt.

“Something like that.” Beau gulps down another mouthful of wine, vaguely wondering what the respectable amount of inebriation would be for a decorated gym.

“So you’re like, a super badass secret agent kind of thing,” Fiona leans with a conspiratorial grin, “Running around and catching super sexy spies and criminals I bet.”

Beau snorts. “It almost feels like it’s the other way around these days.”

“What do you mean?”

\---

The apartment is somehow everything, and yet nothing like how Beau expects. When she opens the door, she is immediately enveloped in the scent of sweet perfume mixing with the chilled fall air. She holds her breath the first few steps in, feeling the sensation through her soft-treading feet of walking across forbidden ground. 

She wanders through the apartment with a slightly manic mind, sleep-deprived and lightly touching her fingertips to everything as if she were in a dream. She finds what she expects to find for the living space of an assassin–weapons, disguises, a stack of perfect counterfeit IDs–but also other elements that scream a personality Beau has been drowning inside for months.

The sweet smell only intensifies in the bathroom as she discovers counters invaded with more bottles of perfume than Beau thinks she’s owned in a lifetime. There’s a fluffy pink bathrobe that hangs on a hook next to the bath that feels like clouds when Beau sinks her hand into the sleeve, and without a thought Beau drapes it on. 

Part of the old wallpaper in the kitchen is peeling, and on the portion that is not is a disorganized mural of flowers done in quick acrylic brush strokes. On the table is a cracked box of donuts, and when Beau opens the lid to peek inside, of course she finds a full baker’s dozen, with only a single bite taken out of each one. The overindulgence of it all forces a choked chuckle out of Beau, who reaches in to take out a plain glazed donut and bites right into the spot Jester had previously sunk her teeth into. As she chews on the stale dough she can feel the hysteria rise in her throat as she opens the fridge for something to wash it down with, only to find it exclusively full of bottles of milk of all things. Beau didn’t even know milk was still sold in glass bottles anymore, nor did she realize there was such a thing as “high-end” dairy until she pulls out a bottle to glare at the overly manicured label.

She places the bottle and donut on top of the fridge and uses her sticky fingers to open up wardrobes and drawers, rifling through each colorful and eccentric outfit as if Jester could be tucked away between any number of them. She can feel her heartbeat and breathing quicken with every sequin and chiffon dress, but the thing that does it: the thing that does it is a small cloth scarf tucked around the coat hanger neck of an expensive Versace blazer. Her fingertips trace over the moons and suns patterned over it–the same pattern as the day Mollymauk gave it to her and the same as the day she lost it.

Some invisible, worn thread keeping her pieced together finally snaps, and this time, she loses it for real.

She is untethered inside the ocean of blood roaring in her ears as she reaches in and scoops clothing out of the closet by the armful, throwing it all across the room. She violently rips off the pink bathrobe and tosses it out of a nearby window before running to the fridge and round-housing the milk bottle off the top to send it shattering against the opposite wall. She sees Jester inside every aspect of the apartment, and she is overcome with the sudden rage, no, the sudden  _ lust _ to consume and destroy everything she sees, and so she reaches back into the fridge and pops the lid off of one of the bottles to take a swig, only to remember her virulent distaste for milk and sends it spraying back onto the floor. She crashed the bottle down after it, and it feels so good she reaches back in again and again and sends more and more broken glass scattering across the floor.

Smash.  _ Jester _ . Smash.  _ Jester _ . Smash.  _ Jester _ . Smash.

She thinks she could continue on this way for hours, systematically smashing and trashing every item within the apartment, except her exhausted and sleep-deprived body quickly uses up the momentum that brief break in composure provided, leaving her breathing heavily in a room wrecked, but still devoid of Jester. In one of her hands is a knife she stole from one of the drawers to cut rivulets through the wallpaper, and this she tiredly tucks into her waistband as she makes her way to the bed. Nothing she has done here has been wise. Staying on this case at all had not been wise. But as she allows her spent body to collapse, eyes shut, onto the plush bed cover, a small part of her mind congratulates herself on finally reaching the reward for all her risk.

Eyes closed, Beau’s mind feels empty and raw and unable to fight the instinct to take in the softness of the bed, and the smell of sweat and skin emanating from it. She rests here, not waiting, not anticipating, but allowing herself this one moment to breathe. When she turns her head to the side and opens her eyes, she isn’t even surprised to find Jester silently standing in the doorway, face purple and navy with bruises and a gun pointed level to her eyes. She doesn’t feel scared, not of Jester or the gun, but just a deep, aching tiredness at the sight of her.

“Did you have a party without me?”

“Mmm,” Beau hums, and pats the area of the bed beside her. She returns to her earlier pose, but even with her eyes closed she can still hear the hesitation, before the soft click of the safety being put back on the gun, and feels the gravity of the mattress shift as Jester slowly, cautiously lays down.

“So,” even with the busted lip, Jester’s airy accent comes through as bubbly as ever, “You found me.”

“Fuck yeah I did.” Beau’s lips turn upwards into a congratulatory smile, and she can feel Jester’s gaze heavy on her face.

“What are you going to do now?” Jester shifts on the bed, “You aren’t going to kill me, are you?”

Beau laughs. “No.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

“Good… me neither.”

Jester watches Beau, and Beau breathes.

“I masturbate to you a lot, you know.”

Beau snorts.

“Like, a lot, a lot.”

Beau’s stomach clenches as her eyebrows shoot upwards, “That’s um, wow.”

“Just thought you should know.”

“Yeah I, uh…” Beau turns her face to look at Jester instead of finishing the sentence, who has her arm tucked under her head. She can count her freckles this close. Her body radiates heat, and even without touching Beau feels drunk off of the warmth washing over her. The empty space between them feels dangerous and razor sharp, as if either of them moved they would cut themselves on it. Jester goes to cross the divide first, but Beau is faster.

Straddling Jester feels good.

It’s hard to tell where Jester’s shock begins and where Beau’s panic ends when she sinks the knife into her belly.

\---

“It’s... complicated.” Beau replies.

“Is it worth it if it isn’t?”

“Well,” Beau nods her head to the side, not saying anymore. Beau doesn’t realize how close the teacher had gotten until she places a surprisingly warm hand on her wrist, and can smell the champagne on her breath. 

“I would love to hear about it sometime,” she whispers airily, and just for a flash, just for a moment she is so close and easing closer and Beau isn’t sure if it’s the wine but it almost seems as if she is going to close that final gap with her cat-like smile and painted lips and–

“But I think I hear my friend calling me so I got to go!” Fiona stands up so quickly Beau has to jerk back, and this time isn’t able to stop the wine that sloshes over the side of her glass.

“Fuck–” Beau mutters and quickly accepts the napkin Fiona produces from her pocket. Luckily none of it got on her pants or jacket so it’s not a big thing to quickly wipe down the glass and her hand.

“You alright there?” When Beau looks up the art teacher is gone, and is replaced with Keg, minus aasimar and plus a bemused expression. “I just wanted to come say hi to whoever you were chatting with, but I hope I don’t have to drive you home.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was just talking to the art teacher and she knocked into my glass, is all.” Beau waves her hand casually in the air, but before she can crumple up the napkin into her fist, her eye catches a flash of something odd.

“Art teacher?”

“Yeah...” Beau unfolds the napkin, and inside it is a wine-stained, sapphire lipstick kiss, different from the maroon the teacher was wearing. Her heart thuds. “Fiona.”

“You mean Pamela?”

Beau is up out of her seat and racing towards the gymnasium doors without even realizing she is doing it. She can hear Keg calling her name after her, but her mind is occupied with plausible escape routes and any sign of blue skin or hair. Beau bursts through the front doors of the school, heart thumping in her chest and face flushed as she whips around, eyes scanning the streets for any fleeing figures or sounds of people screaming. The day is calm outside, however, with only the sounds of birds calling from above on the telephone poles and people taking advantage of the cool evening air to walk the streets. For a split moment she thinks she sees a pair of curled horns, but it’s just some stranger tiefling strolling around with a gaggle of friends. Her chest heaves with fear, and trepidation, and a heady excitement that pumps through her veins.

“Beau,” Keg catches up behind her, “What has gotten into you?”

Beau turns around, and breathily suggests, “You know what, why don’t we just head home.”

“What?” Keg gives her a confused look that verges on annoyance, but Beau grabs her by the sides of her face and plants a hard kiss against her mouth, pushing every ounce of  _ need _ into it, and is satisfied with the look of blushing shock that wipes clean her earlier expression. 

“Home?” The lipstick-kissed napkin burns in her pocket.

“Yeah. Yeah. Home sounds good. Fuck.” Keg says, fumbling with the keys as Beau gives one last look-over to the surrounding area before slamming the car door.

\---

Jester watches the two of them some ways away through the face of an old man. It makes her heart flutter seeing the way Beau chased after her, and the look of desperation on her face when she couldn’t find her out. It was a risk actually touching her, but the phantom feeling of her pulse still beating underneath her fingertips is worth it.

“You really shouldn’t do that, you know,” Artagan’s voice appears behind her.

“Do you think she will think of me when they do it?” Jester’s eyes follow Beau hungrily as she disappears inside the car. 

“What Beauregard thinks about when she is fucking her wife should be no concern of yours, Jester. Must I remind you that you are supposed to be shaking her tail, not chasing it.”

“Oh please,” Jester pouts, “It’s not as if she’s actually going to catch me.”

Artagan raises a finely sculpted eyebrow. “She already has, or have you forgotten your stomach stitches so quickly?”

“All lovers have quarrels. She wasn’t going to kill me.”

Artagan sighs, and reaches a hand out to pet the top of her hair. It must look weird, a tall man in a crisp suit caressing the head of some old man on a bench, but Jester accepts the affection readily. “You are not lovers. I care for you, Jester, and want the best for you. That entails you not getting caught and me not allowing you to make stupid decisions.”

Jester stands up so Artagan’s hand falls away from her head. “I’m not stupid.”

“Well you certainly aren’t in love.”

“You don’t know that.” Jester shoots him a look. “And even if not you could at least let me have my fun.”

“I certainly hope this little excursion lasts you a while then, because I have another assignment for you: one I hope sufficiently distracts you as it requires an extra creative solution.” He offers his arm, and Jester readily takes it.

“Talk about it over dinner? I need something to wash away the nasty flavour of that champagne.”

“Debrief first, drinks after. So, you will be heading to Xorhas–”

Jester allows him to ramble on about the super boring and stupid details, while her thoughts quickly return to the gym. Beau was wearing the cologne she sent her. She could smell it heavy around her neck, and she would have broken character just to lick it off her skin, were she any less of a professional. Instead as Artagan leads her away, rambling on about passports and equipment, she is privately running through her mental catalogue of similar colognes she thinks Beau would like and discreet flower services–calculating a good time span to send over another little gift without coming across as too clingy.

**Author's Note:**

> bang bang - nico vega
> 
> [tumblr](http://crayfishcoffee.tumblr.com/) \- [twitter](https://twitter.com/crayfishcoffee)


End file.
